


Happy Bastards

by Tacens



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tacens/pseuds/Tacens
Summary: In the aftermath of the Landsmeet, Alistair was to be crowned King, Anora would be his queen  and Loghain would live on as a Warden.   Two years later, Anora is left with a husband she does not want and a Chancellor she cannot stand.A Warden Love Story, as seen by the one who loves them least.





	Happy Bastards

Queen Anora Theirin, daughter of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, widow of King Cailan Theirin, and wife of King Alistair Theirin, closes her eyes and waits for it to be over.

Her new husband labours above her, panting softly.  His eyes are scrunched closed; no doubt he is trying to imagine it is his harlot lover beneath him now.  It offers Anora little comfort to know he wants it to end just as quickly as she does.

It is a bitter tonic of Politics and Duty that brings them so miserably  together.  Once a month, on what her legion of healers, midwifes and apothecaries claim should be her most fertile day, Anora summons her second husband to her bed.  Dedicated, dutiful, and utterly depressed, he comes to her, ready and grim. 

They don't even bother removing extra clothing now.  He tosses his dressing gown carelessly over a chair, and then hikes up the hem of both of their night clothes with little ceremony.  He has asked if she would prefer he try for a greater degree of intimacy.  His relief was palpable when she declined.

Anora counts his thrusts.  In a few more short jabs, he will spend within her.   Afterwards, according to her more loyal servants, he will take the winding corridor that links their chambers through to his dressing room and the bath that awaits there.  He will scour himself with near-boiling water, lye soap, and a coarse brush, purging all memory of her from his flesh as though she were the vilest filth scrounged up from the Deep Roads.  Then, he will return to his own bed and into the waiting arms of his whore: the Royal Chancellor, Solona Amell.

In the aftermath of the Landsmeet, Alistair was to be crowned King, Anora would become his queen  and Loghain would live as a Warden.  Anora had not been overly keen to remarry, but, standing  in the  bloody mess of the Landsmeet, she had seen no other way to spare her father and keep her crown. 

The agreement had been that they would rule as equals, and for a few months, they did.  To the outside observer, perhaps this still appears true.  They both still greet visiting dignitaries.  They both still give  grand speeches to their subjects.  Indeed, they still sit side-by-side upon their thrones in court.  Yet, they are never alone:  ever looming just behind Alistair's right shoulder is the Chancellor.  She whispers venom in his ear, enchants him, commands him.  Together, they have pushed Anora into the shadows of the court she once commanded.

Anora's spies have done their best to uncover more about Solona Amell.  They assure the Queen that the mage is no threat to her crown.  Born the fourth child (but first bastard) to the niece of some forgettable Free-Marcher noble,  Solona Amell was sent to Kinloch Hold at the age of seven, her half-siblings already scattered among the Circles of the Free Marches and Orlais.       

She is nothing.  Less than nothing.  A bastard.  A mage.  A whore.  A pretender who managed to fool the Bannorn into fighting her war.

Anora has to stop herself from gritting her teeth at the very thought of the Chancellor.  Her father died bravely, slaying the Archdemon and ending the Blight, and yet the people call _her_ -that cursed bastard - the "Hero of Ferelden". 

Solona Amell has stolen both her father's glory and her husband's attention.

At first, they were discreet enough.  Cailan had always kept a chain of strumpets on the side, so it came as no surprise when his half-brother continued his liaison with his fellow Warden.  In the early days of their marriage, Anora began to worry that perhaps the Chancellor held a bit too much sway with her new husband.  A single whispered word or even just the slightest glance from the witch could change the King's mind in an instant.     

And then Fortune had smiled upon Anora as Solona was called away to Amaranthine.  Still officially Warden-Commander of Ferelden, she was to raise a new outpost of Wardens upon Ferelden's north eastern shores. 

For Anora, it had meant several uninterrupted months to exert some influence upon her new husband and reclaim her position at Ferelden's helm.  It wasn't as though she held any affection for the boy - he was the culmination of all of Cailan's worst traits: foolish, idealistic, philandering  - but, he was handsome enough, she supposed.  She had planned to seduce him, enthrall and entrap him as she had his brother, and then secure the fool firmly beneath her thumb.

She had planned a private dinner for them.  Wearing her finest gown, draped in jewels and with lips painted blood red,  she had leaned towards him, her hands stroking up his arms and along his strong jawline, and suggested they get to know each other better.

And, he had laughed.  The filthy, rotten, bastard had actually laughed at her.    

Upon the Chancellor's return to the capital, the bastards locked themselves in Alistair's chambers and had not emerged until several days later.  When they did deign to grace the rest of Denerim with their presence, the King kept his strumpet closer than ever before.  It was rare to find them more than an arm's length apart, their fingers ever tangling together, his hand upon the small of her back.

They no longer attempt to hide their affair.  The witch has moved into the King's chambers.  She does not even bother to maintain the illusion of keeping her own rooms now.  It's the smallest mercy that they keep their more overt displays of affections to the royal apartments.    

Head still upon pillow, a kink begins to form at the base of Anora's neck, just as she feels Alistair's thrusts grow shorter and sharper.  She grimaces as she tries to stretch it to the side.  Full relief would require her to shift her torso and touch the grunting idiot above her slightly more than absolutely necessary.  She elects to suffer in silence instead.

After far too long, he finally stiffens with a slight groan and spends himself within  her.  Anora gives a silent sigh in relief. 

He hangs over her for a moment, letting his head droop as his breath slows.  His eyes remained closed. 

They barely touch. 

And then, without words or affection,  he withdraws.  

A rush of cool night air pulls at Anora  as he slides out from between the sheets.  She hears the rustle of cloth as Alistair quickly dresses, and then the soft echo of footsteps as he heads for the door.  Without a word or backwards glance, he departs.

When he is gone, she piles two soft pillows beneath her knees, just as the midwifes have instructed.  With the covers pulled up to her chin, Anora stares up into the dark canopy of her bed, trying to ignore unpleasant sensation of husband's seed slowly leaking from her.  She tells herself it is necessary suffering for the blood of a dragon. 

In the cold silence of her rooms, Anora knows she should be sad, or lonesome, or angry, or any number of pitifully weak emotions.

Instead, she feels nothing at all.

~~~~~

Days pass.  Weeks follow.  Somehow, months go by.   The kingdom falls into the comfortable repetitiveness that it had once known under Cailan's rule. 

As she walks backs towards her study, Anora takes a moment to acknowledge the bright morning sun and the fresh flowers that adorn the hall.  She feels a pleasant lightness in her heart.  For a moment, she forgets her troubles, her aspirations, and enjoys the fleeting peacefulness of it.  Yes, today could be a rather good day.

Her thoughts are interrupted as a shriek of laughter echoes down the stone halls and crashes cruelly against her.  There is a scramble of footsteps - the echoing slap and scratch of a runner being chased down old stone. 

She can't see them yet, but Anora knows the source all the same.

She throws open the tall oak doors just in time to see King Alistair, _her husband_ , grab the fleeing Chancellor about the waist.  Using the momentum of the tug, he reaches an arm beneath her knees and hoists her into his arms.  

The Chancellor's long black hair whirls about them.  All the other ladies of court follow the current fashions: tight coiling buns, sometimes a wimple or a snood.   The Chancellor wears her own long and wild, a handful of small braids only adding to the chaos.  She doesn't have the common decency to even try to hide that she's a mage  - even her  gowns have a certain robe-like quality.  No, the witch shoves her magic into the court's collective face.

As Alistair spins them, the mage laughs and kicks, feigning an attempt at escape.  He buries his face into her neck, nipping playfully as she giggles in delight.

Anora stands aghast and unnoticed by the pair.   The Bastards' happiness makes her sick.

In this hall where nobles, ministers, chanters, and servants alike will walk.  _Anyone_ could see them.  Anyone could witness their idiot displays and know that the King dallied behind his Queen's back.

For too long she has endured this - their laughter.  _Their indiscretion_.

Her fury draws hot and coiling up her spine and into her hands.  Anora reaches for the first item she see: a long white candle in a polished silver stand.  With a shriek, she hurls it at the merry bastards.  It sails far around the fool pair but still manages to smash pleasingly against the wall.

Their game at a sudden end, the pair turn to Anora, the Chancellor still draped in the King's arms.  There is a long silence as they stare at one another.  The Chancellor looks annoyed at the intrusion.  The King at least looks mildly guilty.

"Good afternoon, your Majesty," the Chancellor drawls at last.  "Might we be of service?"

Anora  is lost for words.  The insolence!  The gall!  Words, usually so carefully crafted, tumble carelessly  from her lips.  "Of all the childish, irresponsible compulsions...  _Here_? Where anyone could see you?"  she demands, brandishing her arms grandly about her. 

She shrieks as the Chancellor rolls her eyes.  More admonishments.  More insults.  More indignations.  Together they charge out from Anora's belly and into the chamber.

"And you!" she shouts at the King.  "You make a mockery of this marriage!  You - "

"Do you love him?"  Solona casually interrupts.

Anora falters.   The bastard mage dares speak over her queen?   "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you love your husband?" she asks again. 

Anora's mouth opens and closes as she stumbles to find her voice.

"Do you love him with all your heart - all your soul?" the Chancellor continues, turning back to stare into her lover's eyes.  Her hand strokes tenderly at his cheek, and  Alistair looks back at the woman in his arms with equal and infinite adoration.   "Because I do.  With every fibre of my being, I do."

Although the harlot addresses her,  Anora cannot help but feel that she is intruding upon a private conversation.  She wonders if all the rumours of the Chancellor's bewitchment of the King are perhaps true after all. 

"This has nothing to do with love," Anora spits.

"It has _everything_ to do with love."  She glances back towards the Queen.   "You do not love him, and yet, he is not unkind to you.  You have your crown and you want for nothing."

Anora opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off by the Chancellor's hard gaze.

"You're married to the kindest, bravest, man I've ever known: the love of my life," she pauses to stroke the hair back from his brow.  "So tell me, which of us is the injured party here?"

Anora is too stunned to respond.  For all her courtly training, she cannot find the words to strike the bastard woman back down into her place.

At her silence, the mage givens a little hum of victory, before turning back to the King.  "Now, my love, take me to bed."

The final insult is enough to break Anora free from her stupor.  "The insolence...!" she begins to screech. 

Ignoring the outburst, Solona leans forwards and captures the King's lips against her own.  Despite her shouts, they both soon forget Anora is even there.

The queen's temper boils over.  How dare she?  She was nothing - a bastard, a whore who tumbled her way out of Denerim's dirty alleyways and into a royal bedchamber.  Anora was queen twice over, the daughter of legend and the definition of nobility. 

_How dare she?_

"History will forget you, Solona Amell!" she shrieks.

The witch does not so much as blink at her shouts.  "Will you forget me, my love?" she purrs to Alistair.

"Never," he vows, voice deep and gravelly.

Looking over her shoulder, the Chancellor cocks an eyebrow at Anora and shrugs, more than content with his response.  And then, she kisses the King once more. 

Fury boils up from Anora's heart and into her hands.  She reaches for the candle's twin and heaves it at the Bastards, her aim much better this time.  The taper tumbles through the air, separating from its delicate base. 

Solona raises a lazy hand and with a vague flick of the wrist, summons a pale blue barrier before them.  The candle and stand smash harmlessly against the shield and crumble to the ground.   Neither the King nor his harlot so much as flinch, their lips never parting. 

Anora's courtly shackles reach their limits and she spews every shrieking insult she can fathom.

Her useless husband chooses now to intercede.  With a sigh, Alistair tosses Solona up over his shoulder so she hangs like a sack of barley facing away from the Queen. 

"Alright ladies, that's enough now.  We all have to play nice," he laments.   He straightens, gives a slight bow towards to the Queen.  "Good day, Anora," he says, before turning back down the hall.

The Chancellor, still thrown over the King's shoulder, smirks at Anora as she is carried back towards his chambers, and likely his bed. 

The witch has the audacity to wink before the doors close behind her.

~~~~~

She lets it stew -  hot, rolling, boiling -  in her stomach for the afternoon;  Anora simmers in her fury.  She barks at the maids that bring tea to her study, scowls at the cowering servant that unveil her private dinner.  Her hands crumple the stack of missives placed at her bedside table. 

Hours later, she can't let it go.  She can't let _them_ go. 

And so she throws the papers aside, toes on her silk slippers, and storms to the panel door in the far corner of her chambers, wrenching it open.  Her gown bears the faint wrinkles of the day's wear, a few stray hairs reach out from her snood.  It doesn't matter: this is a hardly a formal audience.  She will go to the King, and she will demand his strumpet be sent away.  Either Solona Amell is gone by morning, or Anora will see the kingdom torn in two. 

For a moment, looking down the shadowed corridor, she hesitates.  The bastards are a recent infestation, too caught up in their own vanities to bother to learn the details of their own residence.  But Anora grew from babe to girl to queen within these walls; she knows the stone's secrets.  She has explored the twisting paths, air thick with dust, since the first days she learned to escape her tutors.    And yet somehow, this particular corridor, one which both her husbands have haunted  times innumerable, she herself has never walked. 

She treads in cautious silence until she reaches the heavy door at the other end.  A ray of candlelight streams out through the keyhole, sheering the corridor's heavy shadows in two.  Again, she falters, debates turning back and letting her fury die down in private, but the shadow's dance roots her in place.  Silent, she falls to her knees and peeks through the keyhole.

Anora is not surprised to see her fool husband and his harlot.  It is _how_ she beholds him that shocks her so: nude and tangled together upon the deep red silk of the bedding,  his head buried deep between her thighs, her legs tossed carelessly over his shoulders. 

Alistair looks up, blissfully unaware of his audience, watching his lover writhe beneath his ministrations.  His beard glistens in the candlelight, soaked in her arousal.  All roving hands and teasing lips, his attentions scattered up and down his lover's torso.  The fire in his eyes burns deep as he licks and sucks upon her skin.   

Anora stifles her gasp, unable to turn away from the scene before her. 

With little ceremony, Alistair returns to his work, his caresses gentle and teasing, but building, stronger and faster each moment.  The Chancellor quivers beneath him, drawing  tighter and tighter, her toes point down, her head drawn back.  Her breaths come shorter, faster, panting, building, and then -

He pulls away.  "Right then.  Busy day tomorrow.   Early start and all that..."  He feigns withdrawing.

With a growl, the Chancellor grabs a handful of his sandy hair and drags him back.

His smile comes easy - effortless in a way Anora has never know.  He chuckles softly to himself, nipping at his lover's thigh, before resuming his games. 

It takes only a few moments for them to find their stalled rhythm.  A deep flush blossoms upon Solona's chest, trailing down to kiss at the tips of her breasts.  She falls back into the fog of hot breaths and wet searching strokes upon her flesh.   Her hips lift and twitch against him, the wet strokes of his tongue, the curling  draw of his fingertips.   And then she is coming, crying his name.  One hand tears at the bedclothes, the other pulls upon his ruffled hair. 

"Alistair!" 

Through her quaking, he slows but does not stop his ministrations, drawing out the sensations, forcing her to endure the entirety of the pleasure he gives her. 

In the shadows, Anora remains frozen, reminding herself to breathe.  She should leave.  She should sneak away before she's caught and has to face her husband and his harlot.  Now.  She can make her demands in the morning.  She just needs to stand and be on her way. 

Get up.  Do it.  Right now.

Anora leans in closer, peering  deep into the world through the keyhold.   

At his lover's surrender, Alistair makes his way back up her body, trailing soft kisses in his wake.  A nip upon her hip bone.  A kiss upon her ribs.  A nuzzle against her breast, and a gentle tug upon one flushed peak.  As he reaches her mouth, he looks very much like the cat who swallowed the pigeon. 

The Chancellor reaches up languidly to grasp at the back of his neck.  Pulling him down, they kiss long and leisurely.  The way their bodies align is perfection.  They have all the time in the world.  Nothing matters except the two of them.

Anora's grip upon her gown grows tighter, even as Solona lets her own arm fall limp upon the bed.  She looks utterly ravished, drowned in decadence.  The happiest harlot Anora has ever seen.  And yet, for all that she should be disgusted by the lovers' display, a flush paints itself across Anora's cheeks.  Her breath quickens.  Something forgotten, buried and long  ignored, begins to pulse within her.

"Where's that legendary Grey Warden stamina now?" Alistair asks between slow, lazy kisses along the Chancellor's neck.  When she doesn't stir, he teases, "Does my poor lady need a bit of a rest?  Should I come back later?"

She swats him playfully and draws him back down for another duelling kiss.  He lets her roll them so he lies upon his back, his lover draped across his chest. 

They look at each with such love it makes Anora's heart ache in jealously. 

Scant minutes pass before Alistair brushes his thumb along his lover's lower lip.  She turns slightly and captures the digit in her mouth, swirling her tongue along its pad before releasing it with a sultry smile.  Anora does not realize it, but both a question and an answer have passed between the pair.

Practiced lovers, they switch positions with ease, Alistair braced back against the pillows and Solona sprawled over him.  They kiss for a moment, before she breaks away, her lips travelling a lazy path downwards. 

When the Warden-Commander - the very Hero of Ferelden - takes the King's straining cock into her mouth, Anora chokes back her gasp.  Cailan had asked this of her once - in a fit of drunken bravado, had pushed her head down towards his manhood and ordered that she pay homage to him.  Anora had balked at the demand.  She was a lady - the Queen of all Fereldan!  To be debased like a common harlot was beyond insulting.  Fuming, she had thrown him from her bed that night, threatening to tell her father of his unbecoming actions should he return.

But the Chancellor seems to relish in it.  She sighs and smiles up through her lashes to her  lover.  A pretty blush paints across her cheeks as though oblivious to the lewd act she performs.

And Alistair?  His fingers tangle in her hair, drawing it back away for her face.  He wants to watch.  He _loves_ to watch. He begins to moan sweet ramblings of love and encouragement.   When she takes him particularly deep, strokes just the right spot, squeezes at just the right moment, his eyes flutter closed, his head drops back, and he groans low and blissful.  Through hooded eyes, he peers down at his beloved with such reverence and worship, it is clear that only she will ever hold his fool heart.

Anora's fingertips brush against her lips.  The tip of her tongue peaks out to taste the salt upon them.   She wonders how it would feel to take a man into her mouth.  She would think it disgusting  and invasive, but the Chancellor's actions suggest otherwise:  one of her hands leaves her lover's manhood to skim along her own flesh. 

"Touch yourself," the King encourages, his voice a strained whisper.

Without realizing it, Anora's own hand comes to cup at her breast.  She rolls the soft mound in her palm, shivering as her fingers brush over her sensitive peak.  The fingers of her other hand drifts down her neck, the faint touch drawing a shiver up her spine. 

"Yes, that's it," he groans.  "Don't stop."

Anora's hand journeys further south, trailing across her stomach and then, before she realizes, reaches up beneath her skirts and strokes upwards along her milky thighs.   Her fingers are tentative as they reach her core.  They brush at her soft curls for a few moments, before cautiously delving beyond. 

She shouldn't be enjoying this.  She shouldn't be _feeling_ these urges. 

The first stroke at her cleft pulls a shudder down her spine.  She has touched herself  before, explored her body with a sense of guilt after Cailan had left her feeling hollow and confused.   It had been nice.  Quite pleasant, even.  But  nothing like now.  Now, the glide of her fingertips along her dripping sex is like fire spreading over a pool of oil.  Anora glows at her own touch.  Anora burns. 

When she brushes against her clit, Anora's eyes  slam close as she swallows down a gasp.  Her strokes come faster, growing bolder until she is pinching and rolling her nub with wild abandon.  Something begins to build inside her, burning, coiling within her.  Something so close, Anora can feel it just beyond her reach. 

Through the keyhole, Alistair's ramblings begins to quicken until finally, with a gentle hand on her shoulder, he stops Solona.  He lies back for a moment, breathing deep and long to calm himself.

Anora bites back a groan of frustration, her hand falling away from her core.  They can't just stop now.  Not when she still wants - she still needs ...

Just as Anora is about to storm away in frustration, Alistair begins to stir again, his hands skimming down  his lover's back to cup and kneed at her bottom.  "On your knees, love," he orders.

The Chancellor flashes him a minx's smile before turning and obeying his command. 

Anora's mouth falls open in shock.  Are they really going to rut like beasts?  It's so savage and uncouth and  - her hand is back upon her sex, her strokes already quickening as she shudders - so _filthy_.

Alistair kneels behind his lover, allowing himself a few quick strokes in hand before aligning himself and sliding home.  They both moan. 

It takes only moments before the hot slap of flesh fills the air, the pace ever quickening. 

Anora's breath too comes in short pants.  The King is not gentle with his lover.  His thrusts rock both their bodies.  The bed creaks in protest.  Candlelight dances across their skin.  It's a different sort of love than Anora has ever know.  She is familiar with the tender kisses and soft caresses they shared before, but now, this is something completely foreign to her - a savage, wild love that she has only heard of in courtly whispers. 

The Chancellor's arms quake and at last give out.  She sinks onto the mattress, her cheek pressed against the blankets.  Alistair's  pace does not falter.  He follows her down, curls himself around her back, his forearm hooking around her shoulders to draw her nearer still.  The evening stubble upon his  chin scratches against her neck.

Solona gasps at the new angle, shudders, pants and begs.  Her fingers claw for purchase in the sea of blankets as she yowls.

This is fire - burning hot and coiling about the pair.  They twist and gleam, soaked in a sheen of sweat and desire.  They gasp and moan and _clutch_.  And yet there is love in it.  Such love.

But a few short hours ago, Anora could never have imagined being bent over and _taken_ so wildly.  But now she's seen it and she wants it - needs it.  Longs for the passion that the lovers before her share.  She tries to imagine the brush of a lover's chest against her back, his moans echoing into her ears.   She shivers at the thought of his teeth scraping along her shoulder, his fingers joining the stroke her own.

Nearly forgotten by Anora, Solona comes undone.  She calls her lover's name with a gasped plea before shuttering her release.  The King too unravels, growling incoherent ramblings of love and desperation.  So different from the silent, stoic man that Anora has coupled with, the sounds he makes drives her fingers to stroke faster and faster.

And then... _and then_ ... and then Anora is tumbling into her own oblivion.  She bites back the groan that wells up from her core.

Through the keyhole, the King comes with a shout.  He crushes his lover to him as he spends himself with shaking thrusts inside her.  His thrusts slow as he shudders. 

They both collapse upon the bed. 

Anora is uncertain how long it takes to come back to herself.  Hand still between her legs, she peers through the keyhole to see the lovers cooling in the aftermath. 

Alistair rests still over Solona's  back.  He brushes her hair aside to kiss from one shoulder to the other.   Gentle.  Tender in his adoration.  The words of love and praise he murmurs to her are too soft for Anora to hear, but she knows them  all the same.  She tries to remember the days long past when Cailan once whispered those words to her.

Solona turns to lie upon her back.  Their kisses are sweet as they  nuzzle against one another. 

Alistair draws back.  "Swear you'll never leave me," he says, voice heavy and deep, all traces of jest and mirth vanished.

"Never," she promises with a kiss.  "Never."

Anora looks away.  Even after seeing the pair come together with such passion and abandon, this feels so much more intimate, her intrusion more invasive.

Leaning back against the cold stone, hand soaked and brow flushed, Anora finally realizes that the Chancellor is a problem that will not ever be going away.  She could scream and shout and stomp her feet until the castle fell to dust, but the King would rather see it all fall to ruins than leave Solona Amell.  And in that moment, Anora accepts that maybe there's no point in fighting it.  Seeing them together, she realizes she could never win anyways.  She needs to focus on making the best of a bad situation.

Standing and straightening her skirts as silently as possible, Anora nods to herself.  Be strong.  Be pragmatic. Be a queen. 

 Maybe, so long as they keep their affair within palace walls and so long as Anora does not lose her remaining counsel positions, perhaps she can be content.  She nods again.  She'll keep her old positions _and_ find new niches for herself.  She'll force them all to make her invaluable.  In time, she will rebuild most of her old influence.  And who knows?  Once she provides an heir, her position will be higher than ever before.    

It will all be okay - Chancellor or no, it will be okay.  _She_ will be okay.

~~~~~

Within the year, the Chancellor is pregnant.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been wary of the Demon Baby ending in Origins so when I stumbled across the option on DA Keep to conscript Loghain but have your Warden remain as Alistair's mistress, I was thrilled ... but it turns out it was just a bug and not an actual option in Origins. But let's just pretend anyways, shall we?
> 
> This has only confirmed that smut writing is not my thing. What have I done?


End file.
